


paris, 2005

by narootos



Series: point by point [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Tennis, M/M, Pining, akaashi is a young newbie pro tennis player, bokuto is his new favorite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:42:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24264544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narootos/pseuds/narootos
Summary: akaashi learns maybe nothing is beyond reach.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Series: point by point [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1751929
Comments: 24
Kudos: 97





	paris, 2005

**Author's Note:**

> hi, i'm still on my tennis au bullshit! bokuto's career is HEAVILY inspired by rafael nadal, because they're both my inspirations, fuck it. this was just a little thing for fun, so enjoy!

It’s 2005. 

Akaashi meanders painfully in the dark. For the past three-hours, the Men's Singles French Open final has kept his attention on his television and his anxiety at its peak. Akaashi didn’t make it to Paris this year; he still has a bit more skill to gain, spots in the singles ranking to pass. But hell if he’ll miss this final. 

He’s been following the tour’s token newcomer the entire clay season; watched him win Monte-Carlo for his first Masters 1000 title, then Barcelona, then Rome. He’s already a threat on every surface, but so far, he has decimated the European clay. Akaashi certainly isn’t ranked high enough to play those big events, not even to get into qualifying, and there’s no way he’d get a wildcard. But he would have loved to play this guy, because he has a passion like none Akaashi has ever watched play tennis. 

It’s the way his hair starts out bunched up behind his headband and ends up all over, because he sweats like a faucet. It’s the way he slides on the clay like he’s at one with it, like he’s manipulating it to his will. It’s the way his forehand whips around his head like a lasso, like he’s grabbing the opposition by the feet after a wild chase. It’s the way he makes Akaashi’s heart race because his serve is underdeveloped and he keeps getting broken but still finding a way to win sets with his return games. It’s the way he celebrates a good forehand when he’s down in the score as if he’s up in the score. It's the way he came from out of nowhere and decided nothing was going to stop him from the glory. It’s all those things that makes Akaashi want to follow his journey around the globe, even if he’s not good enough to do it in person yet.

Plus, he’s pretty in love with his arms, which the sleeveless shirts he wears don’t help with. His name is Bokuto Koutarou, and Akaashi is pretty sure he’s a star. 

Just a few weeks ago, he watched as the eighteen-year-old Bokuto fought back from an extreme deficit in the fifth set of the Rome final against a clay veteran. The ball sailed long on match point and he fell on his back on the clay without a care as to how it’d stain his kit. Akaashi almost gave up on him in that fifth set, but something made him stay. Akaashi has never met Bokuto in his life, let alone played him. He isn’t sure he ever will. 

But something about him makes Akaashi have faith. Something about him makes Akaashi feel like he could be down 1*-5, 30-40 in the final set and find a way. Something about him makes Akaashi feel like maybe he could do that, too.  
Bokuto is down 4-5 in the fourth. Akaashi is sweating now, yet he’s freezing cold, his fingers shaking and clutching his blanket, his gaze intense. Bokuto lost the first set, and won the second and the third, but has a hiccup in the fourth that makes Akaashi sure this will go five. But Bokuto breaks back for 5-5.

Nothing makes Akaashi more nervous. He can’t handle the idea that Bokuto might not get this done now, that it might slip out of his fingers after crawling back. He says it out loud: “Finish it, Bokuto-san. Finish it. Please.” As if Bokuto-san can hear him all the way in Paris, with the crowd roaring between the points. 

Akaashi’s fingers shake more. Bokuto holds. 6-5. Akaashi’s lip quivers at 30-all. His hands meet his lips at 30-40. His blanket flies into the air at 7-5. As the chair umpire announces game, set, and match, Bokuto collapses just like in Rome, but this time in the shape of a star, arms and legs outspread. He yells to the sky, yells to the limit. 

It takes Akaashi moments to compose himself, because his favorite player is a grand-slam champion now, and it makes him feel like one, too. It feels like his win, having been roped into the journey with that lasso of a forehand, and it’s not like he has a choice. He’s here now, sobbing in his living room with his mom calling for him to quiet down, and he wouldn’t trade the moment for anything. Not even holding the trophy himself.  


Ignoring his mother, Akaashi runs to his bedroom, throws on some practice wear and his jacket, and grabs his slightly worn racquet. He digs through some cabinets for a flashlight and jogs to the courts. 

He decides, head still buzzing like he's part of the crowd in Phillippe Chatrier, that his newest goal is Paris.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!
> 
> beefkuto on twitter


End file.
